


Laid Bare

by kradarua



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester Has a Panty Kink, First Kiss, First Time, Hallucinations, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pining Castiel, Post-Case, Rimming, djinn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:18:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kradarua/pseuds/kradarua
Summary: Hunts never go exactly according to plan.Victim is unhelpfully tight-lipped about their experience? Typical.Someone gets thrown into a wall? Par for the course.Djinn captures and poisons one of them? To be expected.Except that Sam killed the Djinn hours ago. And Dean still hasn't woken up.-After a Djinn hunt gone wrong, Castiel takes a stroll through Dean's mind to dispel any remaining poison. The hallucination Dean is trapped in is...unexpected. But not unwelcome.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to my wonderful beta(s) for putting up with me!
> 
> Really glad I got to put a story to dmsilvisart's lovely art (which you can find embedded) =D
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Hunts never went exactly according to plan. “Extremely fuck-up-able,” Dean had declared them once. 

In fact, if a hunt ever _were_ to go smoothly, Castiel suspected they’d all be patting down their pockets for a stray rabbit’s foot or lucky coin, so unusual a circumstance would it be.

No such worry was warranted this time, however; Sam misjudged his footing and teetered precariously on the edge of a step as Castiel tugged at the limp arm around his shoulders, adjusting Dean’s weight until Sam found his balance.

“What happened?”

The clanging of the great door had summoned Jack, who peered up at their careful descent and winced as Dean’s boots dragged and thudded against the stone steps as he was pulled along.

“Djinn got him,” Sam huffed. To Castiel he said, “Let’s get him to the infirmary.”

Jack leaned close once Dean was properly situated on a bed and studied the blue Djinn magic that trailed over Dean’s temples and up into his hairline in a lazy, endless loop. “Shouldn’t he have woken up when you killed the Djinn?”

Castiel frowned, worried. “He should have,” he confirmed, drawing his grace forth and pressing two fingers to Dean’s left temple. The blue wisps shifted out of the way of his fingers, but otherwise continued their leisurely path. Other than a slightly elevated heart rate, nothing troubling made itself known to Castiel; Dean seemed to be peacefully asleep. “I don’t sense anything wrong with him.” 

Sam scrubbed a hand down his face—a nervous gesture that ran in the Winchester family, from what Castiel could tell.

“Well, something _must_ be wrong,” he insisted testily, “Djinn magic doesn’t work like this. We’ve fought dozens of Djinn over the years and the routine is the same every time; kill the Djinn, magic dies too. He should be awake.”

“Let me try,” Jack said, hovering a hand over Dean’s forehead and gathering a golden light at his fingertips.

Sam watched anxiously as Jack’s hand passed over the length of Dean’s torso and back again. “Anything?” he asked, but Jack shook his head regretfully.

“I don’t know that anything’s wrong; I think he’s just asleep.” 

Sam gave Jack an appreciative pat on the back, but the disappointed sag of his shoulders was hard to miss.

“He was thrown several times before he was poisoned,” Castiel reasoned, “I’ve healed the physical injuries already, but perhaps this poison took more of a toll than usual, given the preceding fight.”

Sam looked unconvinced; it was a flimsy explanation at best. 

“Let’s give the poison a chance to work it’s way out of his system,” Castiel continued, “We can take turns monitoring him until he wakes.”

“Alright,” Sam sighed, placated, “I’ll take the first shift.”

—

Jack brought Sam books from the library, Castiel made coffee, and three hours ticked uneventfully by. Then another three, and another, and with each shift change the conscious bunker occupants became increasingly restless and agitated.

More than once, Castiel had to stop himself from grinding his vessel’s teeth as he watched the whorls of glowing magic sweeping across Dean’s temples. Jack tried every hour or so to distract them all with conversation, Sam could be heard pacing back and forth in the hallway more often than not, and Castiel was doing his level best not to let his worry boil over, lest he snap unkindly at both of them.

Dean did not wake.

By the end of a full twenty-four hours, Sam had worked himself all the way up to frantic. Despite Castiel’s insistence, he clearly had not slept.

“We missed something, Cas,” he insisted for the third time, pawing through a heavy tome far too quickly to be obtaining any actual insight, “This isn’t right. The Djinn is _dead_ , this isn’t how it works—” 

“I know,” Castiel said, his brow furrowing once more as he watched the steady rise and fall of Dean’s chest.

“Well, the other victims woke up, didn’t they?” Jack asked. 

“Yes. Well,” Castiel clarified, “One victim had been found dead by the time we arrived. We did speak to the second victim though—”

“I think she must not have gotten a full dose,” Sam interrupted. “She told us she was attacked behind the bar, but managed to fight her way out. The third victim…” His fingers tapped arrhythmically against his leg.

“Ian,” Castiel supplied.

“Yeah, Ian. He was tied up next to Dean, but he woke up about an hour after we got him down.” Sam’s brow furrowed. “Ian _really_ didn’t want to tell us anything about his dream world,” he added. 

“The dream world a Djinn creates often plays on very vulnerable aspects of the victim’s life,” Castiel reminded him. “It doesn’t strike me as odd that he’d be reluctant to discuss what he saw with us.” Angel as he was, there was no telling if Djinn magic would work on Castiel in the first place, but he was in no rush to find out for sure. The thought of being given the things he desired most, even if only shoddy imitations, and then having them snatched cruelly away again was gut-wrenching. Better to live in ignorance than with the haunting ghosts of his deepest desires fulfilled, Castiel guessed. 

“Yeah, but I mean,” Sam gestured vaguely, “usually people give us _something_. ‘I was with my dead husband’, or ‘My mother and I finally got along’, or whatever. Ian barely even spoke to us once he was awake.”

A thought flickered somewhere in the back of Castiel’s mind. “Didn’t you hunt an alternative breed of Djinn? With Charlie?”

“That’s right,” Sam said, perking up. At Jack’s perplexed look he summarized: “A few years back we came across a Djinn that fed on people’s fears instead of their hopes and dreams. Instead of being dropped into your perfect world, you’d end up stuck in some variation of your worst nightmare.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Could that be why Dean won’t wake up? Because he’s afraid?”

“It’s not impossible,” Castiel hedged, “but it doesn’t explain why he still hasn’t regained consciousness so long after the Djinn’s death.” 

Jack frowned down at Dean from his place beside the bed. There was silence.

“Um, Sam?” Sam looked up at Jack’s suddenly anxious tone. “Dean is...crying?”

“What?” In four steps, both Sam and Castiel were on either side of the bed.

Despite Dean’s unchanged, peacefully neutral expression, his eyelashes were indeed damp. Castiel watched as tears formed at the outer corners of shut eyes and slid down Dean’s temples to disappear into his hairline. 

“Okay, that’s it,” Sam declared, pinning Castiel with a firm—albeit tired and worried—look, “Cas, it’s time to get inside his head and see what’s going on.”

Castiel nodded, watching another tear spill down over Dean’s freckles. “Help me get him to his room. I’ll have more space there.”

The trip from the infirmary was short. Once Dean was lying flat in the middle of the bed, Sam turned to follow Jack back into the hallway, but paused, fidgeting indecisively.

“Should we—I mean, do you want us to stick around? Just in case?” Sam shifted his weight onto one foot and then the other, likely torn between giving Dean privacy and being available for backup if (when?) things went awry. Jack hovered awkwardly in the doorframe behind him.

His inclination was to have them stay, if for no other reason than to dispel the strange, uneasy tension that seemed to wrap around Dean like a too-heavy weighted blanket whenever he and Castiel were left alone. In the end, he thought better of it; tears or no, they were dealing with some variation of Djinn poison, and that meant seeing one or more of Dean’s vulnerabilities laid bare. Castiel predicted Dean would wake with a gruff thanks and a gruffer order to forget anything he saw while wandering around inside his head.

“It shouldn’t be necessary,” he said, giving the other two what he hoped was a reassuring smile, “but perhaps check on us in an hour or so, just to be safe.” 

Sam gave an aborted nod and, as he ushered Jack out of the room in front of him, a particular look that he’d taken to giving Castiel in regards to Dean more and more frequently over the past few years. _Take care of him_ , the look said. Loosely translated, anyway.

The door creaked softly closed and Castiel kneeled at the side of the bed, turning his attention to his charge.

No new tears were falling; the only remaining evidence was the tacky, drying tracks on Dean’s temples and the clinging wetness that clumped his eyelashes together. Guilty though he might feel for delaying Dean’s recovery by even a second, Castiel was loath to miss an opportunity to admire his familiar features so closely, particularly when they were softened out of their usual worried scowl. 

Despite the multitude of languages at his disposal, he never could find the _right_ words to properly encompass his opinions on Dean’s appearance. Try as he might, anything he came up with seemed to fall just short, and so at some point, he had stopped trying to use words at all, even to himself. It was much more pleasant to simply sit and let his gaze wander slowly, greedily, over Dean’s striking visage until he’d had his fill (or, more commonly, until the opportunity was disrupted).

“Hmm.” He felt rather than heard the appreciative rumble leave him. Grace pooled like cool water at his fingertips and he placed his hands against Dean’s crown, petting gently at the soft, sandy hair before he could stop himself. His eyes blinked closed, and he let himself sink into the yawning void of Dean’s subconscious.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Wandering through a human mind was a tricky thing. Ending up in the correct place—if it could even be called a “place”; Castiel would argue that it could not—was less so a matter of following a path (or some analogous representation of one) from point A to point B, and more so a matter of drifting along in a sea of firing neurons and hoping to stumble across the desired “place” eventually.

Still, Castiel had to admit that modern media’s attempts to visually represent the inner workings of the subconscious were creative and amusing, if inaccurate.

For a brief moment he hung weightless and still, suspended in hushed darkness, and then in a sudden, wild flurry of movement and colors and sounds the space around him exploded into activity. Encouraged forward by a tug just behind his navel (or rather, where his vessel’s navel _would_ be, were he in the physical world), Castiel let himself be carried along.

Memories, half-formed thoughts, stray song lyrics, and various other contextless bits and pieces flitted by too quickly for Castiel to do more than glance at them, but some parts were easily recognizable. Sam was a recurring figure, of course, as was the rumble of Baby’s engine and the cold metal of Dean’s favorite gun against his palm. His own face flashed past him and without meaning to Castiel latched on, feeling another tug behind his navel as he was shifted into the memory he’d trailed.

The memory transpired through Dean’s point of view, of course, but Castiel immediately recognized the diner they were sitting in nonetheless. The memory-version of himself to Dean’s left was unexpectedly transfixing; there was something rather unsettling about seeing himself through someone else’s eyes. This Castiel was equal parts unrecognizable and identical to the version of himself he saw regularly in the mirror.

 _“I ain’t a role model.”_ Castiel felt his mouth shape to make the words in Dean’s voice. Memory-Castiel tilted his head to the side, smiling knowingly.

_“That’s not true.”_

Castiel felt the heat rise to Dean’s cheeks and suddenly it dawned on him that the reason his memory counterpart seemed so disconnected from what Castiel knew himself to be was that all the faults that he saw reflected in his own face—once a warrior of Heaven, now little more than a joke amongst his kind; an arrogant monster who once had the laughable audacity to think himself God; haggard and weary under the weight of his mangled wings and the many turmoils that had befallen him since his arrival on Earth—were absent.

Whether Dean was aware of Castiel’s flaws and actively dismissing them or filtering them out subconsciously was unclear, but the implication was not lost on him: Dean did not see those things in Castiel. Dean recognized a better version of him, a version Castiel desperately wanted to be. He swallowed thickly (or perhaps it was Memory-Dean swallowing around a big bite of burger) as the memory faded away until he was once more adrift in the unpredictable tumult of Dean’s mind.

Castiel peered intently at the commotion around him, eyes chasing after a tendril of Djinn magic that flickered briefly into his line of sight. The bluish thread of light danced elusively, tauntingly, at the very edge of his field of vision, weaving in between a cluster of activity clearly imbibed with poison. Castiel reached out for the small fragments of magic and clung as best he could, willing the tug behind his navel to propel him forward. It felt rather like relying on a few bits of thread to keep him from pitching off the side of a cliff, but eventually, haltingly, he moved.

The hallucination solidified around him quite suddenly and it took two awkward, lurching steps to regain his balance. It was immediately clear that whatever this Djinn had been up to, it didn’t involve keeping its victims happy. There was almost no furniture and the colors here were muted and gloomy. In lieu of a room with four discernable walls, the hallucination simply frayed and blurred at the edges before disintegrating into the shapeless void beyond.

Neither of the other occupants seemed interested in or, indeed, even aware of the bizarreness of the space, however. Approximately thirty feet in front of him, Dean stood near a dingy, gray couch across from the young form of John Winchester. Castiel recognized anger in the set of his jaw, but the challenging, near-mocking stare was gone. Instead, Dean glowered at the ground in front of him, his shoulders hunched.

“Let’s go again, shall we?”

It wasn’t really John Winchester in front of Dean he realized, but some manifestation of _Michael_. Castiel grit his teeth; he’d recognize that condescending tone anywhere. As he drew closer, the glow in Michael’s eyes became ever more apparent—not the white-blue of grace, but the frostier blue of Djinn magic.

Castiel turned to address Dean just as Michael snapped his fingers. Words caught in his throat as Dean was very abruptly robbed of all his clothing save for a pair of black, intricately designed women’s underwear that was decidedly more transparent than not. The flush of his skin contrasted starkly, prettily, with the gloom around them and Castiel guiltily snapped his eyes up from where they’d roamed as Dean scrambled to cover his groin. Dimly, he wondered what result this tactic was meant to elicit.

“No need to be so modest, Dean,” Michael crowed, gesturing as though addressing an unseen audience. Dean winced. “Let’s see how they look on you.”

Castiel watched dumbly as Dean strained against some invisible force that was slowly but steadily pulling his hands away from his body, leaving him properly on display. Dean glared fiercely at Michael, but the effect was tempered slightly by the bright flush spilling across his face and down to his clavicle.

Michael stepped closer, laughing mockingly. “I don’t really get it, Dean,” he chortled, stepping into Dean’s personal space, “Is it the naughtiness of it that gets you off?” Michael stuck a finger into the waistband of the panties and tugged so that it snapped cruelly back against Dean’s skin. Dean held his glare even as the red on his cheeks deepened. “Or the lace, maybe? Do you get hard for silk but not for cotton?”

The see-through material did nothing to hide that Michael was correct in his assertion that Dean was experiencing sexual arousal, despite his obvious embarrassment.

Castiel swallowed hard. He averted his eyes in an effort to offer Dean some modicum of privacy, but it was too late; the view before him had already etched itself into his memory, and there was no lying to himself about whether or not he’d revisit it in the privacy of his own room.

Michael tilted his head to one side in mock thoughtfulness, his eyes glittering. “Let’s get an outside opinion.”

Dean blanched and struggled with renewed fervor against whatever held him in place, but it did no good. For a moment, Castiel assumed Michael had been referring to him as he was the only other being present; instead, indecipherable whispers filled the space and grew steadily louder as Dean struggled fruitlessly against his restraints.

Sam’s laughter (or rather, a crueler, colder version of it) echoed for a moment, followed closely by Jack’s curious voice asking _"Aren’t those for girls?"_

 _"Idjit,"_ came a snort that was far too reproachful to truly be Bobby.

 _“Don’t you think that’s a little...weird?”_ Lisa Braeden’s voice tentatively accused.

 _“Always knew there was some fairy in you.”_ The drunken, disappointed grumble belonged to the real John Winchester.

 _“I don’t understand, what about these do you find enticing?”_ Castiel scowled; the words had sounded around the room in his own voice, but the sentiment couldn’t have been farther from accurate.

With every new voice, Dean flinched as though he’d been slapped. The voices grew cacophonous, eventually melding together into jarring, mocking laughter. Dean no longer tugged at where his wrists were bound. He sagged forward, hunching into himself as best he could (though it did nothing to conceal the source of his shame) and screwing his eyes shut. Across from him, the blue glow in Michael’s eyes pulsed brightly.

A few pieces clicked together slowly in Castiel’s distracted mind. They had been right to guess an alternative breed of Djinn; this kind, it seemed, preyed on its victims’ insecurities and used them to craft situations in which those insecurities would be exploited so the Djinn could feed off—what? Shame, perhaps? Embarrassment?

More research was necessary. They’d also need to suss out how the poison was able to linger so long after the Djinn’s death, but one problem at a time. First, Dean needed to wake up.

Tearing his eyes away from Dean’s turmoil, Castiel rushed at the cackling manifestation of Michael, intending to disrupt the magic with physical force. To his dismay, Michael simply evaporated into fog where Castiel made contact with him, sending Castiel careening none too gently onto the floor. Wincing, he sat up in time to watch Michael regain a solid form without so much as a sideways glance. Brow furrowed, Castiel got to his feet and summoned his blade with a flick of his wrist.

Wary, he took a few careful steps towards Michael, armed and ready, but Michael did not acknowledge him. Castiel stepped closer until he was directly next to him—still, Michael’s gleeful gaze remained fixed on Dean. Quick as lightning, Castiel drew his arm out and swung his blade in a graceful curve, landing the sharp tip square in the middle of Michael’s chest. The blade disappeared through him, but there was no give. There was nothing corporeal to fight.

Castiel huffed and returned his blade to its place inside his coat, filing the bittersweet information away to review later. On the one hand, his inability to interact with the Michael manifestation suggested passive magic, which meant the Djinn he and Sam had finished off was well and truly dead. On the other, it meant that Dean was trapped here until he could recognize the hallucination for what it was, thereby dispelling the magic himself.

“Let’s go again, shall we?”

Castiel blinked rapidly as the entire hallucination echoed and grew fuzzy, as though he were watching a TV show with bad reception. His surroundings grayed out into static and Castiel rubbed at his eyes, disoriented, until his attention was abruptly recaptured by a very familiar sound.

The punched-out groan had heat rushing to his cheeks because it was one he’d heard through thin motel walls when Dean was being intimate with someone. When his vision cleared, the sight before him was equal parts confusing and very, _very_ enticing.

A bed with rumpled white sheets—a stark contrast to the dingy grays all around them—had replaced the couch. Dean was on his knees in the middle of it, head tipped back against his partner’s shoulder and provocatively on display. Just this sight alone was enough to send Castiel’s stomach swooping pleasantly, his eyes wandering of their own volition down over Dean’s torso and hips to where he was hard and leaking between his legs.

But he was certainly not copulating with any of the women he’d recently taken home; no, Castiel was watching _himself_ on the bed with Dean, on his knees behind the hunter and pushing between Dean’s shoulder blades until Dean complied, pressing his chest and face into the mattress as fake-Castiel—truly, Castiel had never felt such consuming jealousy in his _life_ —ran his hands down Dean’s spine and bent to bite teasingly at the supple swell of his backside.

He shouldn’t watch. Djinn magic didn’t simply create scenarios out of thin air; it relied on knowledge of its victims to stimulate the desired emotions. This Djinn had known this to be a shameful secret of Dean’s, something that he wanted but that caused him intense embarrassment to acknowledge. He shouldn’t watch.

On shaky legs, Castiel moved closer to the foot of the bed, unable to look away as his counterpart spread Dean’s cheeks and gave a wide lick across his hole, followed by a series of teasing flicks with the tip of his tongue.

It was a very good thing that breathing was not a necessity for Castiel, because he only realized he had not taken a breath for several minutes when Dean moaned low and wanton, pushing his hips back against fake-Castiel’s ministrations.

“Filthy.”

Castiel started at the sudden, derisive gibe, dragging his eyes regretfully away to see Michael standing next to him, watching with a sneer. For a moment Castiel glared, thinking Michael was finally addressing him, but then Michael moved to stand at the edge of the bed, speaking lowly to Castiel’s clone instead. Dean seemed unable to hear him.

“Can’t believe he thinks about this,” Michael said through a mocking smirk, “Imagine; You, a holy warrior, a being too unfathomably great for a simple, ephemeral speck of existence like him to comprehend…” He laughed outright. “...and he wants to defile you by having you _literally_ kiss his ass.”

Castiel glowered at him, desperately wishing the manifestation were corporeal enough to hit. Michael bent to speak into fake-Castiel’s ear.

“How do you feel about that, Castiel?”

Even though Michael was not addressing the real him, Castiel opened his mouth automatically, caustic words on his tongue, but he was interrupted by movement on the bed.

Abruptly, fake-Castiel halted his ministrations and rose to his knees. The hoarse whine Dean made sent delightful shivers racing down Castiel’s spine and he greedily watched Dean’s red mouth part around harsh inhales, his fists still clenched in the white sheets. For a moment, fake-Castiel seemed to be petting him; one hand slid slowly over Dean’s flank and came to a stop at his waist. The other hand mimicked the position on the other side and the furrow between Dean’s eyes eased slightly.

 _"Cas,"_ Dean breathed, sounding equal parts desperate and incredulous.

And then fake-Castiel shoved Dean bodily to the side, sending him tumbling over the edge of the bed and onto the floor, where he landed gracelessly with a heavy thud and a confused grunt.

“Cas—” he coughed, sitting up and rubbing a shoulder, “why did you—”

Fake-Castiel loomed over Dean, looking down his nose at him with a cold, uncaring expression.

“I don’t understand the appeal,” he stated flatly. Dean only frowned, confused. “Why do you desire my participation in an act so...debasing?”

The words were stiff and too formal, as though this manifestation of Castiel had only scarce interaction with humanity to speak of. It certainly did not reflect the fluidity and familiarity Castiel had developed in his many years with the Winchesters.

“Wh—I—” Dean stuttered, the red returning to his cheeks. Fake-Castiel tilted his head, frowning down at Dean and speaking almost as if to himself.

“I suppose the real question is: who is this most debasing _for?_ I can’t imagine that being placed in such an open, vulnerable position could be enjoyable; perhaps, then, what you wish is for _me_ to feel degraded.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, nodding to himself. “That must be it. As a warrior of Heaven, I’m superior to you in countless ways; strategically, it makes sense that you’d want to defile me until I’m brought down to your level.” He blinked emotionlessly down at Dean. “Maybe Uriel was right to think of you as ‘mud monkeys’.”

Castiel couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Really, it was such an uncharacteristic and ridiculous thing for ‘him’ to say. A poorly-done caricature of himself. Cartoonish.

Dean was silent. Castiel couldn’t stand to see the embarrassed hurt all over Dean’s face; surely, _surely_ Dean did not believe Castiel thought so little of him?

“It’s not—” It came out as a croak. Dean cleared his throat and tried again. “I don’t want to...to _debase_ you, I—” He swallowed, unable to meet the imposter’s cold gaze. Castiel leaned closer to hear the mumbled words.

“It’s—I want it because it’s...because I want _you_.”

Castiel felt his heart in his throat.

“Oh.” The reply was just as flat as the rest had been. “The desire is not mutual.”

Dean flinched.

Castiel could take no more. He grabbed at Dean’s shoulders, intending to shake him out of this utter nonsense reality, but his hands disappeared through Dean just like they’d done with Michael.

He grit his teeth, frustrated. Absently, he let out a string of Enochian expletives with his true voice (something he’d taken to doing more and more frequently, as of late. It was easier to appear outwardly calm and patient if he could throw a small, private temper tantrum outside the range of human hearing). To his surprise, the space around him crackled briefly. He blinked.

 _Oh_. He might have saved a significant amount of time if he’d thought to try that earlier.

“Dean,” he spoke clearly, watching for signs of acknowledgment. Though booming, his real voice sounded distorted and far away even to his own ears. He stepped directly between Dean and his clone, blocking Dean’s view of the unfeeling eyes, and tried again.

“Dean” he commanded loudly.

Dean blinked rapidly.

“Dean, listen to me. You’re stuck in a Djinn hallucination. This isn’t real.”

“Cas...?”

“You need to wake up, Dean. This isn’t real. None of this is real.”

Behind him, his doppelganger and Michael vanished in a puff of smoke. The fraying edges of the hallucination began to disintegrate in earnest. When Castiel looked down, Dean was fully dressed.

“This isn’t real,” Dean repeated, and Castiel parroted him, encouraging.

Around them, the dreary space fell apart and they were weightless, suspended amidst Dean’s thoughts and memories.

“I’m asleep,” Dean stated, more to himself than to Castiel.

With a sickening jolt, the void seemed to tip violently across some imaginary axis, sending everything sideways. Before Castiel could do so much as try to reorient himself, he was being flung back into his own body, kneeling at Dean’s bedside.

Dean displaced his hands from his forehead and sat up quickly, breathing heavily. Castiel didn’t move a muscle, wary of startling him further. Slowly, Dean’s breathing evened out and he inhaled deeply, his jaw locked tightly in the way Castiel knew meant that Dean was quickly closing himself off to any discussion.

“Dean,” he tried tentatively, but Dean shook his head.

“Don’t.” As expected, his tone was terse. “Just...don't.”

There was no point trying to placate him; Dean had been inside other people’s Djinn hallucinations and therefore knew quite well that Castiel had seen everything Dean had. Before Castiel could think of anything useful to say, Dean rose and in three stiff, punctuated strides was tugging open his door harshly and disappearing around the corner.

Castiel got to his feet with a heavy sigh. Dean would need space; he could give him that for now.


	3. Chapter 3

For the first few days, Castiel occupied himself by poring over huge, dusty tomes in hopes of finding some record of a shame-feeding Djinn. By the end of the fourth day, he’d have been grateful to find any information at all regarding how an alternative breed of Djinn might come to be. The old library was not forthcoming.

After an entire week of Dean ducking hastily out of whichever room Castiel currently occupied, Castiel made himself scarce by running errands for a slew of rare potion ingredients that were entirely unneeded at the present moment. “For when we  _ do _ need them,” he’d insisted to quell Sam’s curiosity. 

By the end of the second week, Castiel was entirely fed up with Dean’s childish antics. Sam had wisely refrained from commenting (or else he’d been explicitly told not to) on Dean’s strange behavior, but when a coffee mug shattered on the kitchen floor following Castiel’s arrival in the kitchen, even he couldn’t keep the exasperated irritation off his face.

Dean was acting like a skittish cat. Were they meant to go on like this forever, hunting and traveling and living together without acknowledging each other’s existence? They’d been through far too much already for  _ this _ to irrevocably ruin their friendship. One way or another, Castiel was determined to return some sense of equilibrium to the situation.

So, the next time Dean scurried out of the library as soon as Castiel entered, Castiel gave him a grace period of thirty seconds before following Dean through the halls and to his bedroom.

The door was shut; his knuckles echoed loudly where they rapped against the heavy wood. There was shuffling on the other side of the door and then Dean—who must’ve mistaken Castiel for Sam or Jack, if his casual air was anything to go by—opened the door.

“What’s up—oh.” Dean blanched, the neutral expression on his face shifting into one of panic.

“Dean,” Castiel said hastily, worrying that Dean might simply shut the door on him, “We need to talk.”

Dean cleared his throat and shifted his weight from foot to foot, very clearly trying to find some means of escape. Finally he relented, grumbling “Yeah, alright,” and stepping aside to let Castiel in.

Unsure what to do with himself, Castiel hovered just inside the room, waiting for Dean to begin. A silent minute stretched awkwardly by.

“What happened—”

“I’m sorry.”

Castiel blinked. “Sorry?”

Dean sighed and rubbed at one eye with the heel of his palm. “Yeah, man. I’m sorry for what you saw.”

“There’s no need—”

Dean pressed on, not listening. “I know it’s kinda gross and weird, and…” He gestured vaguely with one hand and stared at Castiel’s shoes. “You gotta know, man, I would never ask you to—I mean, I don’t want you to feel... _ violated, _ or—” 

“Dean, I’m not disgusted by what I saw.”

Dean faltered, his eyes rising to meet Castiel’s as his hand fell limply against his side. Castiel cleared his throat. He knew what he wanted to say, but he also knew he would likely never get another opportunity to say it. Dean needed to understand him the first time; he needed to choose his words carefully.

“The Djinn manifestation of me stated that your feelings were not reciprocated, but—”

“It’s okay, Cas.” Dean’s mouth twitched up in what might have been a smile were the rest of his demeanor not so grim. “You don’t need to, uh, confirm anything or—or whatever. I already know. We can just...let’s just go back to normal.”

“That’s not—”

“Don’t tell Sammy I admitted it, but I don’t always get the girl. Or, uh, you know. It smarts a little every time, but I’ll bounce back.” He winked. “Always do.”

A litany of expletives sounded beyond the human range of hearing in Castiel’s real voice and Castiel thought it a shame that Dean could only see the two eyes of his vessel rolling. He’d existed for millennia, watched planets form and reform, waited unflinchingly through the entire mesozoic era and then another sixty-five million years more, and yet here he stood in front of a single man with the uncanny ability to wear his patience down at an absolutely incomprehensible speed.

Words were clearly of no more use, so instead Castiel strode forward until he could grip Dean’s shirt in his fists and  _ pull. _ There was a muffled sound of surprise against his lips but Castiel didn’t care; he held Dean to him, trying to physically express his meaning in lieu of the words Dean hadn’t let him say.

Dean’s mouth was soft but still against his and Castiel reluctantly loosened his grip, pulling away far enough to see his expression.

“I wasn’t rejecting you,” he stated firmly, before Dean could interrupt him again. Dean blinked, dropped his eyes to Castiel’s mouth, flicked them back up to meet his gaze, hopeful but hesitant.

“I...you weren’t—I mean—” Green eyes flickered downwards again; Castiel was more than happy to oblige. With one hand on Dean’s jaw he guided their mouths together again, pressing his sincerity against Dean’s gradually more eager lips.

“The Djinn magic was wrong,” he murmured in between kisses, “Your desires are entirely reciprocated.”

Large, warm hands slid along Castiel’s waist beneath his trenchcoat, coming to grip at his back as Dean kissed him earnestly. Castiel hummed, pleased, when Dean flicked his tongue against the seam of his mouth, wasting no time in opening to him.

Once they’d started, Castiel found it more difficult than expected to stop. He’d have kissed Dean well before now if given the chance, but he’d long since accepted that the thrumming want that felt sewn into his very grace would go unanswered. It’d been so shoved down and drowned out that now, as he opened himself to it, it pushed at his edges and made him hot all over, begging not to be sent away again. Perhaps it was egotistical of him but Castiel delighted in the way Dean clung to him as though he might vanish, his desperate zeal a manifestation of his own desire responding to Castiel’s.

Dean’s mouth caught his over and over again, soft but insistent, and Castiel suddenly felt determined to reassure him that this was real and not some extended Djinn hallucination. He nudged Dean backwards without separating from him until Dean’s legs bumped the edge of his bed. His intent was clearly not lost on Dean—and Dean was certainly not opposed, if the hard, hot line pressed against his hip was sufficient evidence—but instead of falling back like Castiel had intended, Dean stilled him with a hand on his chest.

“Wait, Cas—” Castiel was admittedly distracted watching Dean pull his kiss-swollen lip between his teeth, but he forced himself to meet Dean’s eyes. “You, uh...you don’t have to.”

That gave Castiel pause. The lovely green eyes were bright with obvious lust, but Dean’s brow was furrowed and he seemed unsure.  _ 'Have to.' _ Dean spoke like Castiel was preparing to complete some long-overdue, menial chore instead of greedily soaking up however much of himself Dean was willing to offer. Unconvinced, even now, of Castiel’s enthusiastic participation.

Oh,  _ enough. _

Castiel disentangled himself from Dean’s arms and before the resigned, disappointed look could settle fully across his features Castiel shoved him firmly in the chest.

“Wha—?” Dean fell back against the mattress with a soft  _ oof _ and without letting him get his bearings Castiel manhandled him onto his stomach in the middle of the bed. With his knees on either side of Dean’s hips and his hands gripping at Dean’s arms he leaned forward.

“I’m glad I saw your Djinn hallucination, Dean,” Castiel murmured, mouthing from the base of his hairline to just below his ear, “I admit, I never thought I’d have you this way, but now that the opportunity has presented itself I intend to take you apart thoroughly.” Dean’s skin was warm and wonderful under his lips and he stopped to kiss every freckle he encountered. He licked at the side of Dean’s neck and felt the thud of his pulse under his tongue.

Dean had squirmed under him at first, but now he lay still. Castiel rose enough to see Dean’s eyes shut tight and jaw locked, watched him swallow as his face grew redder.

“Dean,” Castiel sighed, releasing his grip on Dean’s arms enough to rub them up and down in what he hoped was a soothing gesture, “There’s no reason to feel ashamed. I wasn’t disgusted by what I saw—” He scowled unconsciously at the remembered envy, biting a little harder than he meant to at the junction of Dean’s neck and shoulder. Dean gasped sharply. “—I was  _ jealous. _ Sickeningly so.”

Castiel sat up then, trailing two fingers downwards from the top of Dean’s spine. Without any fanfare, his clothes were suddenly no more, and Castiel spread his palm wide against Dean’s bare skin, swallowing around the whine that threatened to leave him.

“Whoa,” Dean said, eyebrows rising in surprise, “That’s a neat party trick.”

“Hmm,” Castiel agreed, closing the bedroom door with a flick of his fingers as an afterthought. “Some other time, I’ll strip you properly.”

He shuffled backwards and maneuvered himself until he was kneeling between Dean’s legs, bringing his hands to each of Dean’s hips and pulling them up. Beneath him, Dean inhaled sharply, and Castiel couldn’t keep the mischievous smile from his face at Dean’s obvious anticipation.

“No one’s ever done this for you before,” Castiel commented. It wasn’t a question; he knew it to be true. Dean hesitated, gripped at the sheets, eventually shook his head as best he could.

“No,” he muttered. Castiel smoothed one hand slowly along the arch of Dean’s back, cataloging everything his fingers touched—the knobs of his spine, the curve of his ribs inscribed with Castiel’s own sigils, the cut of his shoulder blades.

“Tell me if I do something you don’t like,” Castiel muttered back, absorbed in his exploratory appreciation of Dean’s body. 

He let go of Dean’s other hip and brought his hands to Dean’s backside, squeezing each cheek before he could stop himself, liking the way white marks appeared briefly when he dug his fingers in. Dean pushed back into his hands, and although Castiel couldn’t tell whether the gesture was purposeful or not, he was pleased by the response.

Jealous as he had been watching his clone touch Dean this way, it had been undeniably arousing. Even so, it barely held a candle to having his own hands on Dean’s skin, his own thumbs spreading Dean open.

Dean made no sound but Castiel could feel the shake in his legs, anticipation keeping him strung tight. Castiel stroked one thumb absently along the sensitive skin that was newly exposed to him, watching in fascination as Dean’s hole clenched and unclenched at the touch. Castiel felt his own erection throb, and  _ oh _ how he ached to bury himself into Dean’s warmth and rut against him until they were both satisfied.

Next time, he promised himself.

He leaned forward to place a chaste kiss to Dean’s tailbone and then he restrained himself no further, pressing his tongue to Dean’s hole in firm licks.

Dean must have been biting his lip because the pleading groan that left his throat came out strangled and broken as he jerked and twitched under Castiel’s hands and mouth. The sound was music to Castiel’s ears and he traced Dean’s hole with the tip of his tongue before pressing flat and licking upwards, feeling Dean press back against his mouth. His hands dug into Dean’s flesh greedily and before he’d made a conscious decision about it, his next lick was accompanied by a firm slap.

Dean cried out and for a moment Castiel worried that he’d done something wrong, but the next moment Dean was pushing back against Castiel in earnest, letting Castiel’s name spill from his lips in a way that would surely have gotten Castiel kicked out of Heaven for good, were he not already unwelcome there. The mischievous smile returned to his face at the thought.

Truly, Castiel could not imagine why Dean thought this a chore for him; feeling Dean’s wet hole twitch under his generous tongue, hearing how much pleasure his ministrations were bringing him, knowing he was helping Dean satisfy a craving that had gone unfulfilled—and more importantly, that part of Dean’s craving was for him specifically— tugged at Castiel’s core in the best of ways.

When licking at him no longer seemed enough, Castiel pushed at Dean’s hole with his tongue instead, spearing him and thrusting his tongue in and out until Dean could do little more than whimper between heavy pants, rocking his hips rhythmically. 

He released one of Dean’s cheeks reluctantly, giving it another slap before grabbing tightly at Dean’s hip with one hand and letting the other slide around to find the hot, swollen flesh that hung heavy between his parted knees.

“Oh, f-fuck—” Dean gasped, arching his back as far as he could. Castiel drove his tongue into Dean and sealed his lips around his hole, hollowing his cheeks and sucking as he moved his hand along Dean’s length in firm, sure strokes.

“Cas—” Castiel would bet his own grace that he’d never tire of hearing Dean say his name with such debauchery. “Cas, ‘m gonna come,” Dean warned, and Castiel doubled his efforts, feeling Dean throb in his hand.

Dean swore and panted and shivered as his orgasm was wrung out of him. Castiel felt his weight sink forward and released his hip, his mouth leaving Dean’s hole with a lewd pop as Dean fell onto his stomach, panting and looking quite sated. Castiel couldn’t help but pull his cheeks apart one last time to admire his handiwork; Dean’s hole was pink and wet and puffy, and Castiel smiled. He kissed Dean’s tailbone and draped himself over Dean once more, unable to resist the temptation to rub himself against Dean’s backside.

Castiel placed gentle, lazy kisses along the base of Dean’s neck, listening to his breathing even out.

“Dean?” he murmured, just below Dean’s ear.

“Mmm?”

“When will I get to see you in lingerie?”

Dean’s face flushed red all over again, but he didn’t look ashamed. His only response was a tired, delirious chuckle. Castiel smiled against his skin.


End file.
